She shifted her shoulders to release his grip. His hands dropped to his sides.
“I am never overwrought, and therefore, please accept that I want our betrothal to come to an end. You are free to pursue anyone else you wish. We”—she waved her hand between them—“are no longer contemplating marriage to each other. The wedding is off. I will not be your wife. You will not be my husband. There will be no honeymoon.” She smiled her own fake smile. “Am I making sense now?”
He tried once more. “I have no idea why you are suddenly casting me aside. You have accepted my offer in good faith.” His face twisted into an ugly mask she had never seen before. To the extent that she was almost afraid of him.
She stepped back. “You may leave now, Mr. St. Vincent.”
He stepped forward, causing her to retreat a few more steps. “No. I deserve to know why.”
“Very well.” She placed the ring he’d refused on the table in front of the settee and crossed the room to her father’s desk to fiddle with the pen in its holder. For some reason, she felt the need to create space between them. “It has come to my attention that you have been importing opium to be sold to individuals who are unfortunate enough to be dependent on it.”
He looked as if he had been prepared for her statement and answered quickly. “Opium is not illegal. There are opium dens all over London.”
How she loathed every minute he was in her presence. When he left, she would need to take a bath. “We are not in London, but in Bath. Additionally, your statement is not exactly true. The sale of opium and other drugs is restricted to chemists and pharmacists. You are neither. Therefore, you are breaking the law.”
When he remained silent, she added information she’d picked up from her contact. “You are selling dangerous drugs to ladies and gentlemen who would never enter an opium den even if there were any such horrible place in our fair city. By doing so, you are helping them destroy their lives.”
“If they wish to destroy their lives, that is their business.”
She pointed a finger at him. “No. You have made it your business. It is immoral and ugly. I do not wish to subject myself to being awakened in the middle of the night by an angry father or husband, or possibly even the Bath police, as my husband is dragged from our home in the middle of the night. It would be most annoying and would leave one quite unsettled.”
“That is not true!”
“I disagree. I am always unsettled when my sleep is interrupted.”
He moved toward her, his lips curling. “You might make light of this, but you do understand I can sue you for breach of contract.”
Well, then.
She’d had enough of Mr. St. Vincent. “Do not threaten me, sir. My father is fully aware of my decision and has already consulted with his solicitor.” She offered a quick prayer to the heavens for her lie. “If you wish to pursue that avenue, we are well prepared.”
He snatched the ring from the table and dropped it into his pocket. He straightened his necktie and tugged on the cuffs of his jacket. “Very well. I will leave now. But I must warn you that you will be sorry for this.”
She nodded, only wishing for him to go, so her shaky knees would no longer have to hold up her body.
Mr. St. Vincent turned on his heel and strode from the room, closing the door a bit more enthusiastically than she thought necessary. Amy collapsed onto the settee and let out a huge breath.
Startled at the sound of the door slamming, her dog, Persephone, raced from where she had been enjoying a nap in the corner of the room and jumped onto Amy’s lap. Amy tried to get herself under control as she petted her beloved animal.
Thank goodness that situation had ended.
After a few minutes, she placed Persephone on the floor, moved to the sideboard in the room, and poured herself two fingers of brandy. A most inappropriate drink for a lady, but when things were very difficult, she found it soothed her much more than the contents of a vinaigrette, which most ladies carried.
The door opened and Amy braced herself for Mr. St. Vincent’s return. Her visitor, however, was Aunt Margaret, who frowned at the glass in Amy’s hand. “Was that Mr. St. Vincent I just saw leaving?”
“Yes.” She took another sip of the liquor.
“He looked a bit disturbed.” Aunt glided across the room and poured herself a very ladylike glass of sherry. “To what occasion are we drinking?”
“The end of my betrothal.” Amy wandered across the room and slumped in the blue-and-white-striped chair she always used when she needed comforting. It was in that chair that her mother had sung her to sleep at naptime when she was very young. She raised her glass. “To freedom.”
“Heavens, Amy. Whatever made you end your betrothal? Does your father know?” Her aunt took the chair across from her, sitting on the very edge, her back as straight as an arrow.
“No, Papa does not know.” She shifted in the seat. “He practically forced me into this marriage offer, you know.”
Aunt smiled. “I hardly think anyone could force you into anything.”
“All right, I concede that point—maybe not force, but he was very persuasive.” At least if one could call insults and dire predictions of her dotage persuasive.